


Sam's Sorrow

by GhostGarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, Non-Hunting AU, Pre-Stanford, Teenchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's a good kid who can handle himself, so it's not often that Dean comes home to him crying in his bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam's Sorrow

Dean knows something is wrong the moment he steps through the door. Sam is nowhere to be seen, not rummaging through the pantry or doing homework at the kitchen table, nor stretching out his long growing limbs across the couch in a short afternoon nap after a long day of AP classes and other things that Dean decided to skip by dropping out of high school early.

John isn't home but he obviously was at some point during the day, judging by the empty beer bottle on the kitchen counter and the one smashed against the floor, a mosaic piece of accidental art made by his father in probably a drunken stupor. Dean moves across the floor carefully to retrieve the dustpan and broom but abandons his efforts when a gentle quiet whimper reaches his ears.

He pauses, listening for the sound. It is only a few moments later but he hears it again, a soft sob echoing down the hallway leading to their bedrooms. Dean immediately recognizes it as Sam and it takes all that he has not to run across the house and burst into his room unannounced. But no, Sam always insisted on knocking, wishing to retain the shreds of privacy he had left.

When Dean reaches the door, there's another distressed whine that comes through, muffled by the wood. Dean raps his knuckles softly against the white peeling paint of Sam's door.

"Sammy?" Dean asks with feigned indifference in his tone, trying to keep Sam's dignity in tact by acting like everything is normal, like he just got home and didn't hear his brother crying.

There's no response but he can make out a muffled sniffle coming from inside.

"You in there?" Dean knocks again, a little harder this time around. "I'm coming in. You better be decent, you hear?"

He twists the doorknob, lock long been broken from use over the years of Sam locking it and Dean picking it. The door swings open without a sound to reveal Sam's spotless room--a reminder of just how different they are as brothers since Dean has probably only seen his floor once since they moved there. Sam isn't immediately to be seen; he's not studying at his desk or sitting on his windowsill reading some nerdy book.

No, Sam is a barely identifiable lump under his dark blue sheets, curled up on his side facing the wall.

"Sammy," Dean tries again, more of a sigh than a greeting.

The body under the sheets tenses, shoulders visibly tightening and head of floppy hair ducks into hiding--but still, Sam does not answer his brother.

Dean can see now that Sam is trembling and a great feeling of protectiveness surges in his chest like a spark igniting a fire. He's tried fighting the urge to take care of his brother at all times, as per Sam's request, but there are times such as these where he is just completely overcome by it.

He blinks and finds himself at Sam's bedside, hand already reaching towards Sam's shoulder, to push or pull, to snap Sam out of whatever it is that he is feeling. From this distance, he can hear the shaky uneven breaths.

Changing his mind, Dean instead reaches for the top-sheet, lifting it up a foot to expose Sam's clothed back for a moment before sliding in behind him.

Underneath the sheet is warm, so much warmer than the house that they keep at a balmy 62 degrees even in the deep winter chill that February brings. As much as he loves having his own room--his own mattress all to himself and a place where he doesn't have to worry about Sam bitching and moaning about how messy he is--it's nice sharing a bed again, even if for only a temporary time.

Sam doesn't make any indication that he's noticed his brother's presence at all since he's still laid up, curled and tense like a coiled spring. Dean turns on his side and mimics Sam's position, leaving him to stare at the back of Sam's head.

 _'Sam really needs a haircut,'_ Dean thinks but then immediately squashes the thought, knowing full well that Sam wouldn't be Sam without that head of fluffy brown hair that swept over his ears and curled gently at the nape of his creamy neck.

They lay there in relative silence, listening to the sound of the old central heating unit kick in and out, rattling in the walls and ceiling and producing a faint burnt-dust smell that they knew too well. After a few long minutes, Sam's breath evens out but he still is shaking with an intermittent whimper or sob here and there.

Dean reaches out slowly and hesitantly, unsure of where to touch or if Sam even wanted to be touched at all. He settles for featherlight touches by trailing a few fingertips over Sam's skin, tracing the collar of his tee shirt from one shoulder to the other before moving in an arc to rest his palm completely against the strong column of Sam's neck.

He holds the side of his neck in a firm but gentle grip, stroking a thumb over the knobs of his spine over and over. Sam melts into the touch and Dean grins to himself that he's still able to comfort his brother like this.

It's a few sobering minutes until Sam decides to speak, decides to acknowledge Dean's existence there behind him in bed.

"I told him, Dean," Sam says over his shoulder, sparing him a glance with wet eyes before looking away quickly, returning his stare to the wall.

Dean hums, thumb still caressing and massaging the re-developed tension in his neck, undoing the relaxation from earlier. "Told who what?"

"Dad. I told dad that I'm… I told him about Stanford." Sam replies, rolling over under Dean's grip, wet eyes searching Dean's for something, anything from his brother that would be a reassurance.

Dean's left unable to form a coherent thought, still reeling from Sam's confession. "Oh."

Maybe it isn't the best idea for Dean to be there. He isn't what Sam needs right now. Dean should be happy for his brother, excited that his lifelong dream of going to college is coming true.

But he isn't, and now he's no use to Sam. Dean pushes himself up on his elbows, pushing the sheets off his lap.

"Stay with me," Sam asks, voice barely above a whisper but it's still powerful enough to stop Dean dead in his tracks. "Please."

 _'I should be asking you the same thing,'_ Dean's mind supplies, but he can only nod and pull the sheets back over his body, leaving a few less inches between them this time.


End file.
